


nothing's fair in love and war

by annabeth_writes



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Language, Post-Canon Fix-It, a mix of book and show canon, don't read if that will make you angry, this is not dany friendly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:27:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25092346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth_writes/pseuds/annabeth_writes
Summary: The last snows of a six-year winter were almost entirely melted. The North, independent in all but name, is peaceful and flourishing. As they prepare to celebrate the coming of spring and the planting of new crops, highborn and commonfolk alike sing the praises of their chosen queen. They have little to fear from the south until a missive arrives from King's Landing, sealed with the sigil of a three-headed dragon.Breaking every promise that she made to herself, Sansa Stark returns to the capital to aid the one man she swore never to speak to again.The King of the Seven Kingdoms.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 73
Kudos: 358





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Love and War by Fleurie
> 
> This is a highly canon divergent fic where Jon marries Daenerys after they take King's Landing, in an effort to keep the North safe from her. This is most definitely a pol!Jon fic. It is a blend of book and show canon. For instance, Sansa never married Ramsay but she reunited with Jon in a similar way when she fled the Vale to escape a marriage to Harry.
> 
> I couldn't quite figure out how to make this fic work with Rickon alive so sadly, he's still dead. Bran burned out the 3ER when he helped in the Great War so he's living out his days in peace in Greywater Watch with Meera because he doesn't want to deal with leadership. He may pop up later if I find a way to bring him in but I wouldn't cross your fingers. This story is mostly focused on Sansa, Jon, and King's Landing.
> 
> The Jon/Daenerys of it all is going to be incredibly minor. Their marriage is purely political, and it isn't much of a marriage at all as of the beginning of this fic. You'll find out more as you read.

“My lady.”

Though it was Maester Wolkan’s words that caused her to lift her head, it was the wariness in his voice that made her do so with a frown already in place. It had been quite some time since anyone approached her with such an air of uncertainty. The last snows of a six-year winter were almost entirely melted. Their people were as cared for as they could be, ready to celebrate the coming of spring and the planting of new crops. Their trade agreements with other parts of Westeros and even some merchants within the Free Cities were flourishing.

In light of this, Sansa dreaded hearing whatever Winterfell’s maester had to say, only for him to offer her a sealed scroll without a word.

All at once, she knew exactly why he approached her so. The scroll was sealed with deep red wax, the color of blood. Stamped into the dried wax was the sigil of a three-headed dragon. Sansa stared at it for a few long, silent moments. She could not truly recall the last missive they received from King’s Landing. With Daenerys on the throne after an oddly short and shockingly peaceful transition from a Lannister rule to a Targaryen one, Sansa took up the burden that only two northern kings knew before her.

She knelt.

Even with just two dragons to her name, Sansa knew what would happen to the North if Daenerys decided they were all that stood in the way of her apparent destiny. Though one of the dragons seemed more loyal to the king, the black one was large enough to raze the North and its people to ashes. Sansa only saw Harrenhal once in her life and once was quite enough. She would not allow Winterfell or any other stronghold in the North to meet such a fate. As winter stretched on and their children remained fed and safe, the northern lords’ complaints grew few and far between until she heard almost no talk of rebellion.

In the end, it mattered very little. They kept to their affairs, maintaining peace between the northernmost lords and the free folk settled in the Gift. Ironborn raids on the western coast were all but unheard of thanks to Asha Greyjoy. Any outliers only had to be sent back to Pyke to receive a just punishment. Glass gardens were scattered about the North in every keep and village that could manage such a structure and Sansa herself oversaw the construction of more housing in the winter town to accommodate the smallfolk that wanted to be nearer to Winterfell for the duration of winter. She was Queen in the North in all but name, as they had been largely ignored by the Targaryen queen and her council.

Until now.

Brushing her fingers over the seal, Sansa gave a silent nod towards Maester Wolkan, dismissing him from her solar. _Dark wings, dark words._ Though she had long since forgotten the sound of Old Nan’s voice, her warnings remained imprinted upon Sansa’s mind. If the letter contained ill news, she would rather read it alone than have any witness to her reaction. Even Maester Wolkan, who had proven himself trustworthy over the past several years in spite of serving the Boltons before her. Inhaling a steady breath, Sansa sternly told herself to get it over with before breaking the seal so that she could unroll the missive.

_Lady Stark,_

_I dearly hope that this letter finds you well and in good spirits. All reports from the North speak of your gentle spirit and able leadership. You have certainly thrived in your role as Lady of Winterfell and Warden of the North, though such an achievement is hardly unexpected. I knew that you would outlive the worst of us when you were young, just as I knew you would serve your people well before we last parted. I know that you must feel quite suspicious at seeing a letter from the Hand of the Queen, but I write not as a man in service of that queen, but as a man in service of the realm and of its king._

_It is rather unfortunate that I am forced to admit that the south has not enjoyed as easy a winter as the lands under your guidance. Were it not for your own well-crafted trade agreements, I can only imagine the number of deaths we might have seen due to starvation and disease. We owe you a great debt, my good lady, and it is my ultimate regret that I write to you with the intent to ask for more help from your capable mind. I dare not give specifics within this letter, for fear that it may fall into the wrong hands before it reaches you, but the capital is in a state of chaos. All that I can tell you is that our king needs you now more than he ever has before._

_I know that there has been a divide between Houses Stark and Targaryen since the end of the Great War. To my regret, I have done little to bridge this gap over the past last several years. I do not ask for your forgiveness, Lady Stark, for it will certainly seem disingenuous to do so in a letter asking for your aid. I would much rather offer my contrition in a meeting face to face. I know that the last place you ever want to see is King’s Landing, after all that transpired. That is why it is I who writes to you and not the king himself. He would never think of calling on you to bear such a burden, yet his shoulders strain beneath the weight of Seven Kingdoms without hope of alleviation._

_Please give my words the care that they most certainly do not deserve. The future of our realm may well be in your hands._

_A steadfast friend,_

_Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the Queen_

Sansa read the words over once more, then a third and fourth time after that, yet still found that she was unable to wrap her mind around them. For all that he wrote, Tyrion hardly told her a thing. Of all the letters that she anticipated receiving near the end of winter, this did not even enter her mind as a possibility. Sansa anticipated a command from Daenerys to renew their oath of fealty in the midst of a celebration of spring, not a plea for help. Help for what, she could not imagine. For all that Tyrion received reports from the North, though they were certainly not written by her own hand, she knew little of the south apart from the information she received from her kin in the Vale and the Riverlands.

The only person that she knew for certain exchanged letters with anyone in King’s Landing had given away nothing that suggested the chaos that Tyrion mentioned. Rising to her feet, Sansa walked from her room in a sort of daze, the missive still clutched in her hand. She distantly heard servants and household appointees greeting her as she passed but could hardly recall anything that she said in return. The sound of ringing steel drew her to the training yard, where she knew her Master at Arms would be sparring with whoever she convinced to brave the yard with her on that particular day.

Arya danced about with Ser Podrick Payne, that determined glint ever-present in her eyes. Though she did not notice Sansa standing on the other side of the fence, her sister’s sparring partner did and immediately dropped into a bow, nearly taking an elbow to the chin in his distraction. Arya whirled around, a scowl forming on her face that didn’t ease in the slightest at the sight of Sansa hovering nearby. With a click of her tongue, Arya smacked her sword against the small of Podrick’s back and drew a curse from his lips only for his face to drain of all color at the misdeed of using such language before the lady of the castle.

“It’s quite alright, ser,” Sansa waved him off as he stammered out an apology.

Fixing her eyes on Arya as she drank greedily from a skin of water handed over by an eager cupbearer, she held up the letter and found that it was enough to draw her sister nearer.

“What do you know of King’s Landing?” Sansa asked, holding the scroll out of reach before she could snatch it away.

Arya’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly and she crossed her arms over her chest, still breathing heavily from the exercise.

“I haven’t heard anything in months,” she said, a worried edge to her words that she must have tried very hard to hide. “Why?”

Sansa finally let her have the scroll, watching closely as she read it. When her eyes lifted, they were as serious as their father’s had been while he lived.

“You have to go,” Arya said.

Lifting one eyebrow, Sansa wondered what she saw in the letter that made her so determined when just last week, she vehemently talked Sansa out of making a visit to White Harbor for no discernible reason other than that Winterfell simply couldn’t spare her. Sansa sensed that there was something else beneath Arya’s refusal but knew better than to pick at her. If there was something that her sister wanted her to know, she would come around when she was ready and not a moment sooner.

“Can Winterfell spare me now, then?” Sansa couldn’t resist asking, tilting her head to the side.

A look of annoyance flitted over Arya’s face.

“If Jon is asking you to come—”

“The king _isn’t_ asking me to come,” Sansa reminded her, snatching the letter back. “Tyrion Lannister is.”

She turned to walk away, knowing now that Arya would tell her nothing helpful. If she intended to, she would have done so already if only to convince Sansa to go.

“ _For_ Jon.”

Arya caught up to her all too easily thanks to her maneuverable breeches, while Sansa still wore her thick winter gowns as the last chill lingered stubbornly in the air.

“If our king needs my assistance, he is certainly capable of informing me so himself,” Sansa said in a clipped tone, filled with regret at having sought out her sister.

Grasping her wrist, Arya lifted it up so that the letter in her hand was at eye level.

“They are practically _begging_ you to come to King’s Landing,” she hissed, her eyes blazing as she stared at Sansa unflinchingly. “How can you ignore that?”

Carefully, Sansa extracted her wrist from Arya’s hold and slipped the missive into a small pocket in her gown before clasping her hands so that she could speak calmly to her sister.

“The queen and her king, not to mention her council, made it quite clear that my help was not required when last we spoke. I do not see why that has suddenly changed but I am not going to put aside my duty to Winterfell and the North to go fix whatever they have broken in the south. Especially when I do not even know the state of affairs in the capital and, apparently, neither do you. I could throw myself recklessly at the situation much like our father did when Robert Baratheon called on him to serve but we both know how well that turned out for our family.”

With that, she turned and continued on her path back into the Great Keep. There were larger concerns that commanded her attention.

“Seven hells, do you hate him so much?” Arya yelled after her, bringing the entire courtyard to a halt. “You won’t even say his bloody name!”

Sansa’s cheeks grew hot at her words and the attention that they brought down on them both. Closing her eyes and inhaling deeply, she silently reminded herself that Arya was not there in the beginning. She wasn’t there at Castle Black, nor did she traverse the North with them in search of allies to take Winterfell and the North back from Ramsay Bolton. Arya wasn’t there on that day, as Sansa stood shoulder to shoulder with their cousin, not ten paces from where she now stood, just to watch the pink banners burn. Turning around slowly, she stood perfectly still with a pointed look until Arya closed the distance between them.

“He is our brother,” Arya said in a low voice.

“Cousin,” Sansa corrected her quietly, earning a heated glower in return. “He chose his queen and they chose to sit the Iron Throne, with all that came with it. If there is a mess to be cleaned up, they have a perfectly capable council to help them do so. I, for one, do not intend to fly south at the call of a Lannister every time they feel as if they are in over their heads. That is part of being a leader. If they cannot handle such a responsibility, I am certain there are dozens of southern lords and ladies that would happily take it from them.”

With that, she turned once more and blessedly made it all the way into the keep without another delay. Yet as she made her way further into the warmth of the castle, the missive seemingly burning a hole through her gown, she felt rather uncertain of her decision. If there was one thing that she had learned in her role over the last few years, it was never to show her doubts to others. And so she waited until she was shut away in her solar once again to sink to the floor, pulling out the scroll to read it several times more, her reasons for refusal becoming less and less convincing each time she did so.

*****

As evening crept upon Winterfell and the sun dipped below the horizon, Sansa found that she was even more at odds with her own mind. Not even a long soak in a hot bath, with her favorite oils mixed into the water, could ease her troubled mind. She sat at her vanity now and fiddled with the latch on her jewelry chest, inherited from her mother amidst a trove of belongings that survived the Greyjoy takeover and the Bolton reign of Winterfell. Just behind her, Jeyne Poole stood with a silver brush in hand, carefully running the bristles through Sansa’s hair.

“Long ago, I made a promise to myself that I would never go to King’s Landing again,” Sansa said quietly, lifting her eyes to the looking glass that sat atop the vanity.

Jeyne faltered in her movements, her cheeks growing slightly paler at the sudden mention of a place so cursed to the both of them. Sansa nearly turned in her chair to apologize, yet something kept her from doing so. Jeyne had offered her the respect of never dancing around all that had happened in the years since they last saw one another and Sansa always tried to afford her the same courtesy. They were not children, but grown women who could rely upon one another to speak truthfully yet with empathy.

“I cannot blame you,” Jeyne said, knowing better than to address her with formality in this chamber.

It was the one place where Sansa felt as if she could shed the mantle of a highborn lady with a castle and a large region under her charge, and quite simply be herself. Apart from the scullery maids that drifted through whenever necessary, everyone permitted within knew to simply call her Sansa in the confines of her personal chambers.

“I received a letter from the Hand of the Queen today, all but pleading for my help with some kind of chaos in the capital,” Sansa continued, running her fingers over the Tully words engraved upon her mother’s chest in elegant script. “Would it be rather selfish of me to refuse?”

“It is not a good place,” Jeyne said, setting down the brush so that she could weave Sansa’s hair into a braid. “Unless it is on the queen’s order, you should not have to return to a place that will do you harm, even if the harm cannot be seen.”

Is that why she didn’t want to go? Because of all that she’d suffered in King’s Landing? Sansa wasn’t quite sure. Arya’s words haunted her.

 _Do you hate him so much?_

She did not give her sister an answer. If Sansa were to consider such a question carefully, with all that happened so firmly etched upon her mind, she did not think that Arya would care to hear an answer. In truth, she had done her best to harden her heart towards their royal cousin in the midst of winter, letting the ice permeate her skin to settle deep within. She thought herself altogether indifferent to matters of the south until today. Now as Tyrion’s letter weighed upon her mind, she could not truly decide how she felt.

“You care for the people of the North well,” Jeyne said, pausing in her task to meet Sansa’s eyes in the mirror. “You cannot be faulted for wanting to remain here and continue doing so.”

Her words might have been comforting if Sansa didn’t feel such a pervading sense of guilt. She knew the affairs of the south well. Especially within King’s Landing. Any chaos in the Red Keep would resonate through the surrounding lands. The first people affected were not the highborn nobles with their comfortable castles and featherbeds. It was the smallfolk. People who would starve if they did not work and, sometimes, starve even when they did work, if those meant to care for them failed as such a task.

“The people of the south deserve equal care and provision as those in the North,” Sansa said softly, watching as Jeyne tied off the end of her braid with a silk ribbon. “Who gives it to them, I wonder?”

Before her friend could answer, the door to her bedchamber opened and Arya walked in without waiting for an invitation. Jeyne knew well enough from their childhood that any admonishment would go ignored and so kept her disapproval to herself. At Sansa’s nod, Jeyne dismissed herself with a bow of her head. Once they were alone, Sansa rose to her feet and crossed the room to pour them both a cup of Arbor Gold as Arya threw herself into one of two chairs that sat before the hearth. After handing a cup off to her sister, Sansa sat in the other chair and took a careful sip as she stared into the crackling flames.

“I’m not going to ask what happened with you and Jon,” Arya said, breaking a tense stretch of silence. “It’s none of my business.”

Sansa opened her mouth to say that nothing had happened, though it was most certainly a lie, but Arya silenced her with a look before reaching into the pocket of her breeches to pull out a folded piece of parchment.

“This is the last letter I received from him,” she said, staring at it for a long moment before leaning forward with her hand outstretched.

It didn’t feel right, taking the letter, but Arya looked determined and so Sansa pulled it from her hand and set about carefully opening it.

“When?” she asked, her heart oddly beating rather quickly in her chest.

“Eight moons ago.”

Sansa hesitated, glancing up at Arya with an unspoken question in her eyes. Why so long? It was frustrating, feeling as if she had bits and pieces of a story that she couldn’t put together. Chaos in the capital. The king needed her help for some unknown reason. A letter from the Hand of the Queen that hardly mentioned the queen at all. Months of silence between their cousin and his undeniable favorite of the two Stark sisters. Sansa had received no such letters since the coronation, nor did she send any to him. The line had been drawn long ago, though it looked quite muddled now.

“Are you certain that you want me to read this?” Sansa asked before so much as looking at a word.

Arya nodded once before turning her eyes towards the fire. Undoing the last fold, Sansa smoothed the letter out before holding her breath as she read. It was odd, seeing his writing after so long. Knowing that he had held this very paper, perhaps even in the same spots that her fingers now brushed. Sansa let her eyes flit over the messy scrawl, taking in every word. It seemed quite normal at first. Shared memories. Things that reminded him of Arya. Then it changed. He spoke of the queen.

His wife.

Sansa’s blood turned to ice as she read, his words crafting an image in her head. It was little wonder that they received nothing at all from the south. If Sansa was right, the council must have been trying their very best to keep word from spreading through the Seven Kingdoms.

_She grows ever more fearful of her own advisors._

_Drogon screeches day and night. He has never done so before._

_She nearly sent a man to the black cells for a fortnight, simply because he sold a sickly sheep to a farmer._

_There was blood in her chambers. We don’t know where it came from._

Sansa turned the letter over, unable to bring herself to read another word. She felt Arya’s gaze on her, heavy and waiting. Without looking, she folded the parchment up again and handed it back.

“It must have gotten worse,” Arya said.

Picking up her cup, Sansa took a far more healthy drink and swallowed it down with a shudder.

“Why did you not tell me?”

A beat of silence.

“There’s enough talk of rebellion in the North. I didn’t want to add to it,” her sister said simply.

Sansa’s eyes snapped to her at once, her anger burning hot within her.

“You think that I would do that to him?” she asked, sitting up straighter in her chair.

Arya gave nothing more than a shrug, slipping the letter back into her pocket before taking a long drink of her own. Pushing to her feet out of a sheer need to move, Sansa paced away from the hearth and drank down the rest of her wine. As soon as the last drop passed her lips, she stilled in place and inhaled deeply before tossing the cup away, listening as it clanged across the stone floor.

“May the gods damn them all!”

Her uncharacteristic shout echoed around them as she sank onto the edge of her bed, burying her face in her hands. Sansa knew that she could not count on Arya for comfort. They had both changed in the years since their father was executed before their eyes and Arya wasn’t even one for a soft touch before it all changed. Tears of anger sprung to Sansa’s eyes, spilling out onto her cheeks as she lifted her head and looked over at her sister.

“I do not want to go,” she said in a hoarse voice, a tremble in her words.

Leaning forward, Arya fixed her with a knowing look.

“But you will.”

Sansa let out a choking sob, wiping furiously at her cheeks. She would not say it aloud, though they both knew that Arya was right. No matter how angry she was, as if six years had not gone by at all, she knew her own mind well enough to be aware of a line she had drawn for herself. A line that she could not cross. And ignoring the suffering of people who did not deserve it would definitely force her to cross that line.

*****

“I leave the care of our home and our people in your hands, sister” Sansa said, focusing on adjusting her fur-lined gloves as she stood beside her horse. “I trust that you will lead them well.”

Arya watched her with sharp eyes, a slight smile on her face.

“I won’t let it all burn down if that’s what you’re saying,” she said with the slightest bit of amusement in her voice.

Sansa pressed her lips together and barely kept from rolling her eyes as she finally turned to face her.

“I know you won’t,” she said, dropping her hands.

Over Arya’s shoulder, she could see a man with thick arms and blue eyes nearly hidden by the fall of his hair over his brow hovering just out of earshot. Raising her eyebrows ever so slightly, Sansa looked on with amusement as he flushed and purposefully glanced away.

“You would do well to sort things out with our blacksmith as well,” Sansa said, reaching up to ensure that her cloak was firmly clasped in place. “I would not be opposed to attending a wedding upon my return.”

Unlike Gendry, Arya held her gaze and scowled so fiercely that they may as well have been eleven and eight again, ever at odds with one another. This time, Sansa could not keep from letting out a laugh. Reaching out, she drew Arya into a hug that remained stiff for a few moments before her slim arms wrapped around Sansa’s waist to embrace her in return. They stepped away after a short time, nodding at one another in a silent bid to care for themselves. Turning towards her horse, Sansa stepped up onto a low stool placed there for her comfort since she would not endure a man’s hands upon her. Not even long enough to help her into a saddle. Placing her foot in the stirrup, Sansa took a deep breath before hauling herself up and settling atop her lovely, gentle mare.

At her side, a larger horse stirred anxiously beneath his rider, the most valiant of knights and Sansa’s only trusted protector. She was glad that Brienne agreed to accompany her to King’s Landing. Though she was her sworn shield, Sansa would have understood if the other woman wished to decline and send Podrick in her stead. While Jaime Lannister was not particularly _in_ King’s Landing, he served as Warden of the West and Lord of Casterly Rock and his brother was the Hand so it wouldn’t take a stretch of the imagination to think that he likely visited court often. The only thing that might prevent him was the memory of his sister sitting upon the Iron Throne that was now taken by a woman that hated him above all others, except perhaps Sansa herself.

“Thank you, Brienne,” Sansa said, meeting her shield’s eyes with gratitude in her own. “For being at my side.”

“I would not choose to be anywhere else, my lady,” Brienne said, bowing her head as she held the reins of her horse steadily.

Giving her a small, careful smile, Sansa shook her head and turned to look towards the gates of Winterfell that were open and ready for her to leave.

“You may regret saying as much,” she warned before urging her horse into motion.

Behind them, a Northman clucked and drove his own horse forward, drawing a carriage that held all of the belongings they would need for a hopefully short visit to King’s Landing.

“It’s not too late to change your mind, my lady,” Brienne offered as she breathed in and out shakily.

“I’m afraid that it is,” Sansa said softly, not knowing if her sworn shield could even hear her words. “I have very little choice in the matter.”

*****

The journey along the Kingsroad was far shorter with the two of them, a wagon, and a small group of northern guards rather than the royal company of hundreds that accompanied Sansa the last time that she made this journey. They were outside of the city walls before she could really prepare herself. The scorch marks on the stone were unmistakable, though far from comforting as the Gate of the Gods opened wide and admitted them to a city covered in dragons. Hours before, along the Kingsroad, Sansa had taken a moment at an inn to freshen herself up, splashing water on her face and changing into a fresh gown before tying her hair off into a neat braid over her shoulder.

If she had to face the Dragon Queen and her husband once more, Sansa was determined to do so with as few disadvantages as she could manage, even when it came to her appearance. All around her, she felt eyes following them throughout the city. Sansa knew that it was altogether unlikely that any of these people recognized her, though she was a fixture in Joffrey’s court for quite some time. They did not care to recognize noble girls from years ago, so they looked at Sansa with curiosity and little more. It was an entirely different story when they rode through the gates of the Red Keep.

The faces of noblemen, highborn women, and servants met her no matter where she looked. Some of them stared at her with little recognition. Others saw the girl that they knew in her face. The girl that they had seen humiliated. Stripped. Beaten. Some of them had winced. Others laughed. Sansa would never forget. Dismounting her horse, Sansa exhaled a shaking breath once her feet were on solid ground. The ground of a place she wanted to never see again. She nodded at the stable boy in thanks as he took the reins to lead her mare away alongside Brienne’s horse. Before Sansa could so much as look around to see if anything had changed, Brienne cleared her throat and nodded towards something.

Following her gaze, Sansa inhaled sharply and straightened her back, refusing to look weary even after weeks spent traveling along the road. If the Hand of the Queen could manage to look well put together in spite of the drinks he likely already imbibed, Sansa could damn well bring her eyes to shine and ensure that her posture was appropriate for a lady. As he drew nearer, she could see the differences in Tyrion’s appearance. More wrinkles. Grey hairs. Loose clothing. A sign of stress or a hard winter? It was impossible to know which without asking outright, and Sansa knew better than to do such a thing.

“My lady,” Tyrion said, looking as if he might collapse in relief at the sight of her as he drew near. “How is it that this long winter has only improved your beauty when it’s done quite the opposite for me?”

Sansa allowed a small smile at his flattery, sinking into a curtsy as he bowed and held his hand out to take her own. She watched impassively as he placed a kiss over a sapphire ring set in silver. A nameday gift two years ago from a very sneaky Brienne, who told her not to tell anyone who gifted it to her. Particularly not that lout, Lord Jaime Lannister.

“You flatter me, my lord,” Sansa said.

“Usually, I might silently agree with you while outwardly pretending that I would do no such thing. But I can safely say that no one needs to flatter you with falsities. You are a great beauty, Lady Stark. And the most welcome sight I think I have ever laid eyes upon.”

She could see the worry in his eyes. How they darted around from person to person, whether courtier or servant, gauging what they knew. Judging their danger by their faces and names. Trying to find the threats that would never reveal themselves so easily. Sansa swallowed hard against the bitterness that rose in her throat and tasted awful upon her tongue. She hadn’t missed this place one bit.

“Thank you, Lord Tyrion,” she said, her smile growing more forced with every passing moment.

“Would you like to retire to rest from the road? Surely we can find some accommodations rather quickly,” Tyrion offered, sweeping his hand towards the steward of the keep.

Sansa held a hand up before the man could approach.

“Surely I should present myself first,” she said warily, not wanting to delay the inevitable. “Is your queen expecting me?”

Tyrion gave her a look that spoke volumes. Pausing in the midst of smoothing out her midnight blue skirts, Sansa narrowed her eyes at him and knew now that he was hiding something. Not just a small mess at court or an easily fixable mistake. Something big. Something that so briefly made him look as if he wished he could be anywhere but here when the man she knew before was altogether thrilled at the chance to finally be Hand to someone who wasn’t the cruel boy-king that they both came to loathe.

“And your king?” Sansa asked, her voice growing colder.

Yet again, Tyrion hesitated to speak. At least this time he opened his mouth after a few moments of strangled silence.

“Your cousin is—”

“Does he have any idea that I planned to come at all?” Sansa interrupted him without care for propriety, her ire growing rapidly. “Or did you conveniently choose _not_ to tell him of the letter that you sent me?”

Tyrion stepped closer, his eyes darting about the courtyard.

“Please, my lady, if we could just—”

“Tell me the truth.”

The Hand of the Queen looked up at her with weary acceptance, as if he was being led to his death by her command.

“He was adamant that I write no such letter,” Tyrion said, barely speaking over a whisper. “He knows nothing about your journey, much less your arrival.”

Sansa pressed her lips together, breathing in and out deeply as she glanced about the yard to seek a distraction so that she would not scream her frustration to the heavens. At her side, Brienne shifted and frowned down at Tyrion, wondering if he had lost every bit of that clever mind of his.

“Lady Stark will not be hidden away like a shameful secret, my lord,” her sworn shield said in a clipped tone, knowing Sansa well enough to know when to speak for her and what to say. “You may either present her to the queen and king in open court or arrange for a private audience but she is the Lady of Winterfell and Warden of the North. She will suffer no further insult. Her presence will be known.”

Tyrion said nothing at all and Sansa glanced at him to see that he was watching her, waiting to hear what she thought of Brienne’s command. She gave him little more than a brief nod of her head, letting him know that her shield spoke for her.

“They were hearing the second to last petition for the day when I was called away to greet you,” Tyrion said reluctantly, tilting his head in a bid for them to follow him.

They walked as briskly as they could and yet Sansa hesitated before the steps of the Great Hall, once more remembering where she was and all that had transpired when she was last in this godsforsaken place. Tyrion seemed to read her hesitation with ease.

“Those monsters are slain, Lady Stark,” he said carefully.

Sansa looked down at him for a brief moment before lifting her eyes to the towering building once more.

“But their ghosts may remain,” she said quietly as she hitched her skirts up to ascend the steps.

Tyrion fell back to walk alongside Brienne as if he deemed it natural to let her lead, though he outranked her in this particular keep. Sansa kept her chin lifted proudly as they approached the set of doors and the guards opened them at Tyrion’s nod of assent. Her heart fluttered away rapidly in her chest as her stomach twisted anxiously. Sansa had no idea what awaited her behind the doors. A mad queen? Aerys come again? An angry cousin? A pair of iron manacles slapped on her wrists for all the whispers of rebellion that had resonated through the North these past years? Was this all an elaborate trick to trap her here once more? 

Taking a deep breath and steeling herself, Sansa walked through the open doors with steady steps, each one bringing her further into a hall that she despised more than any other. She could not bring herself to look up at the Iron Throne and see the silver hair of the queen that ruled over Westeros. Instead, her eyes darted about the crowd, noting their shock at her appearance. Those who knew her face whispered furiously to those who did not. She could count the steps between the door and the base of the throne’s dais with ease, having done it nearly a hundred times when Joffrey ruled over these halls. She knew which tiles she bled upon. Where Ser Meryn stood to beat her. Where she knelt to plead for mercy on behalf of her father. Where she stood with Septa Mordane as the older woman described a future that Sansa would never live.

_Someday your husband will sit there and you will sit by his side._

Sansa slowly lifted her eyes, trying to understand why it was so quiet. Had she interrupted something important? Would she be punished for walking in without permission? She steeled herself to meet the cold violet gaze of a woman that hated her only for her heart to leap in her chest as she met a pair of shocked grey eyes instead. Her mind could not quite make sense of it. It was supposed to be Daenerys. Sansa had prepared herself for weeks to meet the queen, however unstable she might be. It was never supposed to be _him._ At first glance, he looked as if he fit the throne quite well. Joffrey always seemed too small, dwarfed by the iron swords that surrounded him. Sansa imagined that it was even worse for Tommen.

But for this king…

Then she saw him. Truly saw him. His hair was too long and his beard unkempt. Dark circles looked like bruises beneath his eyes. There was a gauntness in his cheeks that didn’t belong. For a man of seven and twenty namedays, he looked as if he had lived decades in a matter of years. When had he last slept? Eaten? Taken care of himself at all? What was happening in this place? He looked as if he had seen all seven hells and quite simply waited for the Stranger to drag him back. Twisting her hands into her skirts, Sansa forced herself to lower her gaze and breathe, sinking into a low curtsy with her head bowed towards the floor.

“Your Grace,” she murmured.

Though quiet, her voice seemed to carry throughout the hall with how utterly silent it was. The watching nobles and petitioners seemed to hold their breath at her very presence. Did it seem so odd for the Lady of Winterfell to visit court when her cousin sat upon the Iron Throne even now? Sansa waited and waited in her curtsy, her legs burning with the effort until Tyrion cleared his throat purposefully behind her and seemed to jolt everyone else out of whatever trance her appearance had cast over them all.

“Rise.”

Her entire body seemed to come alive at the mere sound of his voice, after all these years. Her heart raced in her chest and her skin broke out in chilled bumps, a shiver crawling its way up her spine as she straightened up. She _hated_ it. She hated it and she hated him, that he could still have such an effect on her. What gave him the right? Sansa clung tight to her anger until she lifted her eyes again and saw the utter wreck that he had become. In her deepest, most hidden thoughts, she always imagined that he would look glorious upon the Iron Throne. As handsome and strong as any king that came before him. The true heir to the throne, no matter what his wife proclaimed.

She never imagined this.

“Out,” the king said, a raspy edge to his voice as if he rarely ever used it. “Now.”

Somehow, Sansa knew that he meant everyone else. Everyone but her. His stare remained fixed upon her, keeping her rooted in place. Her heart stuttered and raced in her chest, which rose and fell rather quickly. She had little idea of what to expect. Only that they would be alone in a matter of minutes. Brienne hesitated for a moment only to bow at Sansa’s quick nod, retreating with the rest of the court in a shuffle of feet and the whisper of gowns over the tiled floor. 

“I will ensure you are not disturbed for the rest of the day, Your Grace,” Tyrion said.

The king didn’t even blink at his words. Tyrion was the last to go. The doors shut firmly behind him. Sansa felt as if she could scarcely breathe, standing before him after all this time. She wondered what he saw as he looked at her and cursed herself in the next moment for such a silly thought. Whether or not he thought her appearance pleasing to the eye should have been the least of her concerns. Her self admonishment ended as he slowly, too slowly, rose from the throne. Sansa swallowed hard as he descended the steps, looking as if he couldn’t quite believe that she was there.

As his foot left the last step, Sansa inhaled shakily and wondered if she should curtsy again. Would he want that? She did not know. He had only ever been the King in the North for a short time and he’d had little patience for decorum then. Had he been changed by the south? By the pomp and circumstance of court? Would he want her obeisance now? Sansa barely had the chance to wonder before he was in front of her, mere paces away. Close enough to touch. His breaths seemed to leave his body as sharply as her own. His hands twitched as his sides. Sansa waited for him to shout. To give her whatever anger he had stored away, for she had plenty to give in return. Yet he said nothing at all. He _did_ nothing at all.

Until he did.

Sansa flinched out of surprise as he dropped to his knees before her, her hands lifting unthinkingly as if to catch him. Her eyes grew wide as he reached out towards her, closing his fingers around her slim waist with ease. She could feel their warmth even through the layers of her gown and underclothes. He looked up at her with tears in his eyes, his breath hitching more and more with every passing moment. Sansa’s heart shattered at the sight of him and the ice that she’d nurtured there burned away at the touch of his hands as if it was never there at all.

“Sansa,” he whispered reverently, as if it was the most precious word he had ever spoken.

Then something seemed to shatter within him too. He lowered his head, collapsing into her until his forehead was pressed to her stomach, his hands gripping her waist just tight enough to keep her steady. Sansa’s own hands lifted of their own volition as she let out a gasp, her fingers slipping into his too-long hair. He shuddered violently against her, his tears soaking into her gown. She could feel his mouth moving, his lips forming words that took some time for her to hear in the midst of her shock. Her name, repeated over and over again amidst a spill of apologies.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Sansa… Sansa, please… I’m so—I’m so sorry,” he whispered as if the words had been a mantra in his head all this time. “Please forgive me. Please, Sansa… please… I need—I need you… I’m sorry.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks, one after another, leaving glistening trails on her porcelain skin. Sansa stroked her fingers through his hair, again and again and again, her own chest rising and falling rapidly as she tried to keep from outright sobbing.

“Oh Jon,” she choked out, his name falling from her lips for the first time in six long years. “Jon, Jon, _Jon._ ”

They stayed there, tangled together in this horrible place, and cried all the tears that they had refused to let fall since they last saw one another.

*****

Sansa did not know how long they remained in this strange embrace, only that her body ached from weeks of travel, and Jon looked so terrible as if he hadn’t slept in ages. The hard floor would be doing his knees no favor, she knew well enough from her own experiences kneeled upon it. So she called out to him softly, gently guiding him until he stood before her. Yet he did not give her the chance to speak another word, gathering her into his arms once more and pressing his face into her hair. She exhaled slowly, slipping her arms around his waist to give herself time. To slowly build up her armor of courtesies. To do what it took to survive in this place, the only way that she knew how.

“You must rest, Your Grace,” Sansa said, her quiet command at odds with her respectful reminder of his rank.

Jon stiffened ever so slightly in her arms, drawing away with a deep furrow in his brow. Before he could say anything to ruin it, to bring to her tongue all the sharply-edged words she’d honed deep within her mind over the years, Sansa tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and looked up at him with steel in her eyes.

“Would our king be so kind as to escort his cousin to the holdfast?” she asked expectantly.

He swallowed hard, a look of aching hurt and reluctant acceptance crossing his face before he turned to lead her from the Great Hall. Sansa knew the way to Maegor’s Holdfast well, yet she let him guide her all the same. They did not speak a word, remaining in silent council with one another and ignoring all those that they passed. All of the curious eyes and hushed whispers. Sansa could feel the tension thrumming here, even in the open air. Something was happening. The entire keep was on the brink. Perhaps even the entire realm. She bundled her frustrations away, knowing that they would not serve her now.

Sansa had dozens of questions and she had little doubt that Jon yearned to ask a fair few of his own. Yet they maintained this stubborn silence, walking as close as kin yet with the distance of six years and many broken promises between them. She was vaguely aware that Brienne followed them, as well as a company of castle guards. Whether they were Westerosi or if they hailed from Daenerys’ foreign armies, Sansa did not know. But she didn’t trust her words to their ears. In truth, she didn’t even know if she trusted them to Jon. The queen’s absence was a salient mystery that made her feel as if danger lurked in every shadow.

“I will have chambers prepared for you,” Jon said suddenly as if he only just realized that she would need such accommodations. “And for Brienne as well, of course.”

“I am certain that Lord Tyrion has that all well in hand,” Sansa assured him.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his face darken and he parted his lips to speak once more, his voice much quieter.

“He brought you here, didn’t he?”

Sansa said nothing, simply lifting her free hand to press a finger over her lips. She would not speak of Tyrion’s letter here, if at all. She released his arm as they reached a narrow set of steps that Sansa knew would lead directly to the royal wing of the holdfast. Jon hesitated outside of a door that all but stole the breath from her chest. Sansa knew that Daenerys would have laid claim over the larger chambers, those that were Joffrey’s and Tommen’s and Robert’s before her, and each of the Targaryen kings before that. But to know that Jon lived in the chambers that once belonged to Cersei made Sansa feel ill at ease.

Yet she stepped into them all the same, tugging her cousin along with her. Jon held his hand up to halt any guards that may follow them and Sansa gave Brienne a look that told her to wait in the corridor. As soon as the door shut behind them, it seemed as if the last vestiges of Jon’s energy failed him. He all but slumped over the back of a chair, gripping it tightly. Sansa wondered if he simply felt as if he could release the tenuous hold on his kingly mask within these rooms or if it was her presence that eased that particular burden. Either way, she set about attending him without hesitation. Jon blinked at her with shock as she turned him around and began unlacing his doublet with gentle hands. 

“What are you doing?” he asked at once, his burn-scarred hand lifting to clasp over hers.

Sansa resisted the shudder that rose within her at the feeling of his warm skin against hers. His stormy grey eyes felt as if they burned through to her core. As if he could lay every inner thought that she had bare with a single look. Sansa avoided meeting his gaze in return, easing her hand out of his grip to continue her task.

“You are going to rest,” she said, her voice leaving little room for argument. “You look worse than I’ve ever seen you and that is no state for a king to be in before his court. So you are going to take to your bed, Your Grace, or I will have my shield come in and put you there herself.”

Jon swayed slightly on the spot as she pushed the quilted doublet from his shoulder, briefly admiring the handsome shade of dark forest green that complemented his pale northern skin. Glancing about, Sansa was happy to see that the chambers held no trace of their former inhabitant. If she didn’t know any better, she might have been convinced that they were entirely new. Wrapping her fingers around Jon’s wrist, for taking his hand felt far too intimate, she guided him through an open doorway and into his bedchamber, her cheeks warming the littlest bit.

Once, it might not have been quite so unseemly to enter his chambers without a third person to ensure propriety, when she was still named his sister. But nothing was the same now. He was a king and she was the ruling lady of a great house in her own right. They were cousins, not siblings. And there was so much in the past that divided them. As they reached his well-made bed, Sansa untucked the sheets atop it and gave him little choice but to sit. Jon stammered out her name as she knelt before him, her skirts pooling on the floor around her as she took it upon herself to remove his boots one at a time.

“Lie down,” Sansa instructed once she stood, lifting her chin in a manner that did not invite argument.

Jon’s lips thinned out and annoyance flitted through his eyes, though he obeyed all the same.

“I am quite capable of—”

Sansa gave him a look, one brow arched in doubt as she tilted her head to the side.

“If you were _quite capable_ of caring for yourself, my king…” she said, pulling the sheets over him. “... you would not look days away from the Stranger’s embrace.”

With that, she turned with a whirl of skirts and approached the windows that overlooked the bay. The room was far too heated for Jon to sleep comfortably. He was raised in Winterfell, after all, and took after her father, at least in his habits. The breeze from the sea was a poor substitute for a good northern chill but it was all that she could offer, propping the windows open as wide as they would go. The distant sound of waves was no louder than the howl of wind amidst the towers of Winterfell and she knew the noise would not keep him awake. Once her task was done, Sansa brushed her hands over her skirts and made for the door of his bedchamber, horribly eager to put some distance between them once more.

“Am I?” Jon said quietly, his voice drawing her up short of the door though it sounded as if he was already on the verge of sleep. “Your king?”

Sansa’s blood turned to ice at his words. She knew what he was trying to ask. All this distance between them, all these years of bitterness, and a steadfast refusal to be the first to break. Did he still have a place in her heart? Was he still her king? The man she believed in? The man she had trusted? Did she know the answer? Did she even know her own heart anymore? Without turning to look at him, she took a deep breath and steadied herself before speaking.

“I bent the knee, did I not?” Sansa asked coolly.

She didn’t linger to hear his heavy sigh, closing the door behind her and praying that he might sleep for hours. Perhaps even days. In the meantime, she could reconstruct the shield around her heart and sort out whatever mess they’d made. Then… 

Then she could go back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would love to hear what you think!
> 
> Don't worry, Sansa won't be in the dark for long. She has several revealing conversations in the next chapter.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the wonderful response to the first chapter! Just because you're all amazing, have a very quick update as my gift to you! I was going to wait a few days but I think you all deserve it.
> 
> I feel like I need to get something off my chest before y'all read the chapter. In my fics, I don't want to write perfect characters. Perfect characters are boring as fuck. I always seek to write nuanced, flawed characters that are as close to their canon selves as possible. People who are allowed to make mistakes without having to "suffer" for them. People who can learn and grow and be allowed to trip up without suddenly becoming a bad person. Sometimes I diverge a little bit, to make a situation work, but I always try to do them justice. I love Sansa Stark just as much as I love Jon Snow, and the same goes the other way. If I didn't love them, I wouldn't write for them. 
> 
> Most of all, I don't write for them to receive comments that are full of vitriol and hatred aimed at one or both characters. I really don't enjoy reading those comments. I don't agree with them. I have my comments moderated for a reason. If I see a message that is filled with nothing but hate for me, my writing, or the characters that I love, I will delete the comment. That may make me sound super bitchy, but I don't really care. I'm tired of seeing comments like that. They only make me angry/sad and I never want to feel that way about my writing. So don't be surprised to see that your comments aren't approved if you are nothing but hateful/spiteful in them. Now, this only applies to a very small percentage of the comments that I get so to the rest of you, keep doing what you're doing. Like I said before, you're amazing.
> 
> Now that I've said what I need to say, I hope that you enjoy the chapter!

In all her time spent in King’s Landing, Sansa had never seen the council chamber. The room was richly furnished, with draping curtains over the windows and finely carved furniture, and more comfortable than she might have imagined, if not overly warm. Sansa tugged at the sleeves and collar of her finely embroidered but decidedly northern gown as she explored the chamber. She would need different dresses if her stay at King’s Landing grew much longer. With spring nearly in full bloom, Sansa would have to put aside any qualms and dress accordingly. Fluttering silks and open sleeves did not suit the North but she could not deny that they were practical for this climate.

As her fingers brushed over one of two infamous carved Valyrian sphinxes that guarded the chamber door, it opened to admit not just the Hand of the King, but another familiar face as well. Sansa kept her expression carefully blank, not wishing to make a childish face and offend Lord Varys, though she could still remember how his eyes followed her about during his stay at Winterfell in the midst of the Great War. Straightening her back with determination, Sansa followed them to the small council table and took a seat at Tyrion’s invitation as several servants slipped through the door with trays of food and flagons of wine.

“You must be quite hungry after your journey,” Tyrion said, waving the servants away as they bowed.

Sansa gave him little more than a nod and allowed him to pour her a cup of wine as she took a small blueberry tart to nibble upon.

“It is lovely to see you in King’s Landing once more, my lady,” Varys said, his eyes as sharp as a hawk beneath all his perfumed manners. “Much more now that winter has ended and all reports speak of a flourishing North.”

She offered him a small smile, knowing that there was already a game at play. These two men, more than anyone, knew why it was far from lovely for her to return to this poisonous keep.

“Thank you, Lord Varys.”

“I dare to hope that the king was pleased to see you,” Tyrion said, dangling a piece of bait before her.

Sansa’s smile grew, though it lost nearly all warmth. If he thought that she was here to share any words that may have passed between herself and her cousin, he would be sorely disappointed. Sansa sat here with them for one reason alone. She would have her explanation and then she would decide whether she intended to stay.

“More pleased than he will be when he sees you again.”

Varys looked almost amused as Tyrion faltered just slightly in pouring himself a cup of wine.

“All that I do is for the good of the realm,” the Hand of the Queen said, though there was a flicker of something in his eyes.

Doubt, perhaps? Varys certainly looked at Tyrion with traces of judgment in his eyes. It was not Sansa’s place to hold Tyrion accountable for all the crimes of his past, of which there were many.

“A comfort to those you serve, I am sure,” Sansa said mildly, lifting her cup to her lips.

To her surprise, the honey-sweetened wine was one she hadn’t tasted since the Tyrell gatherings that she attended in the Red Keep gardens or the Maidenvault. All at once, she missed Margaery fiercely. The other woman would have ways of getting exactly what she wanted out of this conversation. She would weave such a glorious web with her words that by the end of it, she would have everything and the men wouldn’t have the slightest clue about what had happened. Sansa knew that the choice of wine had to be purposeful. Was Tyrion trying to remind her of different times? Of some of the only happiness that she’d managed to snatch up during her time here in the shadow of his family?

“I do hope that your presence will prove invigorating to our king. As you may have noticed, he has had a difficult time of late and—”

“Where is she, Tyrion?” Sansa sighed, cutting through the flowery words to get at the heart of the matter.

No, she was not Margaery. She would not craft a web of sweet words to get what she wanted. Sansa was her father’s daughter and would rather ask outright and expect an honest answer in return. Yet unlike Ned Stark, she had learned from many different teachers and knew how to read faces better than most. She would know if they lied to her. And if they did, it would make her decision on whether to stay all too easy.

“My lady?”

Sansa’s eyes cut to him, brilliant in their color yet as cold as ice and as sharp as a blade.

“Where is the queen?” she asked slowly, ensuring that they heard every word.

Tyrion looked at Varys and Varys looked back at Tyrion, and Sansa watched the both of them, ready to hear what Daenerys Targaryen had broken. Prepared to fix it once more, as she had each time the queen insulted a northern lord, or when it slipped that she burned thousands of wagons of grain in the Reach along a great lord and his son, or when she marched exhausted soldiers into battle against Cersei’s forces and nearly lost the war.

“We… do not know,” Tyrion finally confessed.

Sansa grew quite still in her chair, staring at him over the rim of her cup. She waited for the jest. For whatever witty line her former husband had waiting on the tip of his tongue. Anything to take away the weight of the words that he had spoken.

“You don’t know?” Sansa repeated, lowering her cup to the table.

“Queen Daenerys has regrettably disappeared,” Lord Varys said, folding his hands in his sleeves with a look of concerning aloofness. 

“Disappeared?” she echoed once more, still trying to wrap her mind around what they were trying to tell her.

Tyrion nodded. Varys watched. Sansa breathed in and out, taking her time, measuring each inhalation and exhalation at a count of five. It was Arya, of all people, who taught her such a calming exercise. A way to combat a sudden rise of fear, anger, or anxiety. Sansa was currently experiencing a wave of all three.

“Are you looking for her?” Sansa asked, the question sounding all too simple in the wake of such impossible, yet grave news.

Tyrion lifted his cup, taking a healthy drink as Lord Varys gave a solemn nod.

“We’ve sent riders out in all directions. Only those who have the deepest trust of her Master of War.”

That would be Grey Worm. So he knew. Tyrion and Varys knew. Jon most certainly knew. It was ever so likely that the entire small council knew. And now Sansa knew.

“The dragons disappeared with her?” she said, feeling oddly numb as she continued letting her tongue do the work that her spinning mind could not.

“One of them,” Varys said, watching her closely. “The other remains close to the capital.”

Close to Jon.

Reaching up, she pushed her untouched plate away before folding her hands atop the table.

“And where does the court think that their queen is?” she asked calmly.

“Her chambers, trying very hard to recover from a resurgence of a childhood illness. A very serious disease from Essos.”

Sansa narrowed her eyes, knowing that neither man was foolish enough to believe that would work for much longer. Eventually, someone would speak out. The world would know. And when it did…

“Tell me.”

They did.

*****

It was a practiced tale, likely planned between them from the time that Tyrion sent the letter to her.

—

It began with a tired army. Sansa’s practical words went unheeded and Jon’s admonition silenced her, much to the delight of his queen.

_ “The northern forces will honor their promises and their allegiance to the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.” _

So Sansa grew silent. She heard the news of Jon’s birth in silence. She oversaw the army’s preparations in silence. She watched them leave from the walls of Winterfell in silence. And she wrote four letters at her desk in silence. As they marched south, ravens flew from Winterfell’s rookery, bearing missives to the far reaches of the kingdoms. Arianne Martell in Dorne. Willas Tyrell in Highgarden. Her uncle in the Riverlands. Her cousin in the Vale.

Their lands and people bore the mark of the Lannisters’ cruel touch. Did they not want to see justice for such suffering? They answered the call before the Dragon Queen could even reach the capital. Cersei Lannister had no hope of standing against five of the Seven Kingdoms, a foreign army, and two dragons. She surrendered. She bore her trial. She knelt to be executed. Perhaps the war would have been won without Sansa’s missives, but they would never know for certain. 

All that they did know was that with four simple letters, Sansa Stark provided a decisive victory and won the Iron Throne in the name of Daenerys Targaryen.

—

Restlessness settled in quickly. The queen had never endured a single winter before, nor had she the opportunity to simply be content. To remain in one place without planning the next move. The next battle. The next war. What was peace to a conqueror? Aegon had Dorne, a kingdom that refused to bend. His distant descendant might have had the North to force into submission if not for the final letter that Sansa sent to King’s Landing. A sworn statement of fealty, stealing away the queen’s next war just as she stole the satisfaction of a lone victory.

—

Winter swelled to its peak. The people of King’s Landing grew hungry. Those who were there for Joffrey’s reign knew well what happened next. Noblemen and their households abandoned the capital. They would not endure another riot. The gates of the Red Keep were sealed. Word spread of a burned caravan in the Reach. Thousands of barrels of grain turned to ash. A mob marched upon the keep. Shouts filled the air for an entire month, cursing the queen’s name. Then the city gates opened to wagons bearing food.

Because while the queen screamed each day that the mob would burn, King Jon and Tyrion Lannister came together and put ink to parchment.

Word spread through the Seven Kingdoms. The great houses of all regions called on their bannermen and gathered what they could spare. They had all seen war. They had all seen hunger. They would not let the common people suffer for the wars that they had no part in. The tension eased. The people of King’s Landing celebrated. The names of their saviors were proclaimed and blessed and sung about day and night. Arianne Martell. Edric Baratheon. Jaime Lannister. Robert Arryn. Willas Tyrell. Edmure Tully. Sansa Stark.

The days grew warmer.

The noblemen and their households returned to King’s Landing.

Still, no one sang of Daenerys Targaryen.

—

The nightmares came swiftly. Her paranoia grew. The Grand Maester gave her a tonic to aid her sleep. She heard the whispers of her brother in her ear, just as she had as a child. Speaking of all the threats against them. All those who wished them dead. The dragons grew restless and the people grew fearful. She saw monsters in the shadows.

—

She became convinced that the dreamwine was poisoned. 

The Grand Maester nearly burned. 

The king stopped her.

—

The commonfolk became her enemies. The noble houses became conspirators and endured threats to their families, lands, and people. She withdrew from court. She feared everyone.

And then she disappeared.

*****

Sansa sat in silent thought, ignoring the two men before her entirely as her mind worked to connect the information that they laid out before her. It would take days to come to terms with it all.  _ Weeks _ to assess the full impact. This was not a mess to be cleaned up. This was not a minor break to be fixed with pretty words and trade agreements. This was an entire realm on edge. This was wildfire about to explode. This was… 

“War,” she said quietly, finishing her thought aloud.

“My lady?”

Sansa looked up at Tyrion, her face pale and her eyes narrowed. Planting both hands on the table before her, she rose to her feet and stared down at the two men who decided that bringing a woman with three dragons and no basis to lead across the Narrow Sea was in the best interest of Westeros.

“Thanks to your queen,” Sansa said, her voice shaking with the force of her anger. “The Seven Kingdoms are on the brink of another war.”

“I hardly think—”

“No,” she cut Tyrion off, pushing away from the table to pace the length of the chamber. “You don’t think, do you?”

“Lady Sansa—”

“She nearly burned the Grand Maester,” Sansa hissed out, prowling about in a manner much like Ghost when Jon was away at Dragonstone and the direwolf wanted nothing more than to hunt. “The Citadel would have revolted.”

“Your cousin handled the situation admirably,” Lord Varys assured her.

Sansa felt no comfort at the words. There should have been no situation to handle, if he had only listened to her. If he had heeded not only her warning, but the hesitation of all those who felt wary of being ruled by a Targaryen once more.

_ She’s not her father. _

_ No, she’s much prettier. _

That particular exchange almost seemed laughable now, if only she did not feel like screaming.

“Tell me your plan,” she said, stopping suddenly to look at them. “If she hadn’t disappeared? If it became worse? If she actually began burning people?”

Neither of them spoke, though she could see the reluctance in their eyes. The confession. The shame. Sansa threw her head back and laughed, pressing a hand to her forehead. She felt flushed all over now, heat and anger coursing through her.

“You would have killed her somehow,” she said, shaking her head. “Though not before the dragons, surely. Or at least the black one. Perhaps Jon could control the other long enough to be crowned apart from her. Am I correct in assuming that there is a scorpion somewhere close by?”

“In Hayford Castle,” Tyrion corrected her after a moment of hesitation.

“Of course,” Sansa said, inhaling deeply and brushing out her skirts. “This has been quite illuminating, my lords.”

They watched her closely as she looked around the room to avoid meeting their eyes, quietly accepting her fate.

“Does Daenerys have a seamstress?” Sansa demanded.

“I-I beg your pardon?” Tyrion asked, reeling at the sudden change in topic. “A seamstress?”

She looked at him with raised brows, growing more impatient with him by the moment.

“Yes, a seamstress.”

“I believe so, Lady Stark,” Varys said, saving Tyrion from having to answer.

“I will require their services as soon as possible,” Sansa said in a curt tone.

She did not even offer them the consideration of a curtsy, turning on her heel to leave them behind. Sansa did not know where she was going, only that she needed to escape from that hot, confining chamber. A tension-filled court. Starving commonfolk. Furious mobs. Threats of fire and blood. Advisors on the verge of killing their queen to prevent a war.  _ Another _ war. How much fighting could one see in their lifetime? Would it ever end? Were they truly meant for peace? Or was war etched upon their bones at this point? As inescapable as death itself?

Two northern guards shadowed her steps, as Sansa had sent Brienne off to rest from the journey. She led them to the gardens, her feet tracing a familiar path. They were quite grown, showing that spring had spread to the capital long before it reached the North. She admired the bushes upon bushes of beautiful roses, no doubt grown from seeds by way of the Reach, allowing them to guide her to a familiar terrace. Brushing her fingers over finely carved pillars, Sansa could almost hear the musical notes of Margaery’s laughter on the breeze even though the thrice-wedded former queen was comfortably exiled in Highgarden, forbidden to step foot in King’s Landing for the rest of her days. 

That was just as well, considering that the Dragon Queen seemed on the verge of burning whomever she wished before her disappearance. Inhaling deeply, Sansa took a measure of comfort from the salt of the sea breeze as she settled upon a low wall and leaned her head against a pillar. Letting her eyes fall shut, she banished all from her mind and let the distant sound of crashing waves carry her into a place she had not reached for in years. A hidden solace, where beautiful dreams and warm memories were tucked away where none could find them. 

Her father’s gravelly voice, speaking tales of the North in his solar as they all surrounded him eagerly. Her mother’s soft hands, guiding a brush gently through Sansa’s thick auburn waves. Robb’s laughter, loud and boisterous as he led them through merry games in the godswood. Arya’s bold countenance, as fierce as any wolf defending her pack. Bran’s smiles, so full of warmth and innocence. Rickon’s cold little feet, pressing to Sansa’s legs in the night as he burrowed deep beneath her furs.

Theon.

Jeyne.

Beth.

Jory.

Shae.

Jon.

_ Jon. _

His grey eyes wide and shocked as she clambers from the back of a dying horse and throws herself into his arms. His hands callused and rough yet so gentle as he grasps hers in the dark, warming them in the shadow of the Wall. His voice thin and woven with pain as he recounts the years and his attention fixed fully upon her as she does the same. His laughter full and bright as Tormund spins her in a free folk dance around a crackling bonfire in the deep of the North, months before they’ve taken Winterfell back. His lips soft as they brush over her forehead.

Softer still as they slant over her own, those strong arms drawing her into an embrace. 

Those rough hands skimming along her sides, lifting her skirts, tugging at the laces of her smallclothes, delving within and…

_ No. _

Sansa tore herself from the recesses of her mind with a gasp, hating just how far she’d let herself fall into that fantasy. It never happened. Jon never gave her more than the kiss upon her forehead, moments after pleading for her trust. A trust that she gave him. A trust that was never returned. Bitterness came rushing in, cold enough to replace the slow-burning fire that simmered beneath her skin. Sansa gripped at her skirts tightly, wishing that she had never come. That she didn’t need to stay. That she could damn them all to the war they’d asked for and go back to the North to rule her people.

But she couldn’t.

Not when thousands may suffer in the south.

Not when Tyrion’s letter lingered in her mind, reminding her of the truth with every passing moment.

Jon needed her.

So she could not leave, even if she hated herself for it.

*****

Sansa expected the servant that came to her door later that evening. He did not bear the summons that she anticipated, but rather an invitation. She could not help but sigh as she read the words, scrawled in his familiar writing. It made her wonder how many evenings he dined in the confines of his chambers, leaving the court to whisper and plot behind his back. Could she forgive him such ignorance? Could she forgive him for all the rest? Sansa guided her thoughts to safer ground, plucking a gown from her chest to dress.

The evening air was cool enough to allow her the fur-lined gown. Though it was crafted of plain wool, Sansa saw the fabric dyed to a deep plum and stitched the sleek black fur into the collar and edges of the sleeves herself. From there, she wove black thread into a floral design upon the bodice that one could only see if they were close enough to peer at the fine stitching. With her hair drawn into a half-braided style, the rest left to spill about her shoulders in copper waves, Sansa left her chambers with her head lifted high and carved a familiar path through Maegor’s Holdfast.

One of his guards knocked soundly upon the door as she approached. Sansa kept her face carefully arranged into a look of polite distance even as her heart thundered in her chest. She hid her trembling hands in the folds of her gown as the door unlatched and all but flew open. Jon stood there with relief written upon his face. Sansa knew exactly what she had done, sending no response to his invitation and therefore leaving him to wonder if she would come or not. It was cruelly done, she knew it, yet it was only a taste of all the anxious waiting she’d done, only to watch him come through the gates of Winterfell with a beautiful queen at his side and no intention of apologizing for his betrayal of the North.

_ And of you,  _ a traitorous voice whispered in her mind.  _ He betrayed you. _

Sansa shoved it away, sinking into a graceful curtsy that would have made Septa Mordane swell with pride.

“Your Grace,” she said in a perfected voice, a mix of breathlessness and awe that once made Joffrey preen.

Before the blood spilled.

Before her father died.

Before she tasted blood upon her tongue.

Jon stood there with wide eyes as she rose, lifting her head to meet his gaze. It seemed that he had little idea of what to do apart from stand there and stare. Sansa waited patiently, her head tilted just slightly to the side. When one of the guards shifted and his sheathed sword scraped across the stone wall, the sound seemed to awaken Jon from his odd trance. He looked slightly better than before but still altogether unkempt. It wasn’t well done for him to wear the same doubtlet as before. Sansa wondered if anyone ever bothered to teach him such things. She could have done so if given the chance. Then again, he likely would not have listened to her.

As he stepped aside in wordless invitation, she fought the childish urge to roll her eyes and slipped past him into his outer chamber. An array of foods was laid out over the table, every bit as rich as the ones that Tyrion offered to her in the council chamber. As Sansa took her seat, only after Jon pulled it out for her, she noticed the platter of lemon cakes in the midst of it all and quickly looked away from it before she could acknowledge the bloom of warmth in her chest. She could not let herself unravel at the sight of such a simple delicacy, even if the presence of her favorite indulgence felt meaningful.

It took a moment for Sansa to realize that the hand pouring wine into her cup belonged to the king himself. Casting a quick look about the room, color rose in her cheeks as she realized that they were utterly alone. There was a time when it wouldn’t have been unusual. Long nights spent in tents as they traversed the North brought them together to share fires and wines and memories. Those turned to evenings in her solar in Winterfell, both before and after he was proclaimed as King in the North. But all of that was  _ before _ . Before the letter from Dragonstone. Before Daenerys Targaryen.

Before a crack formed upon the common ground they shared and grew wider with every passing day. With every shouting argument. With every look he shared with the Dragon Queen. With every instance he spoke over Sansa to reaffirm their loyalty to an invader. They had not sat alone together in years. She hardly knew how to do so now, with this man that she no longer knew. Sansa once thought that they’d never go back to the way they’d been as children. She had been partially right. This was nothing like that.

“You have no attendants?” she asked carefully, breaking the silence between them.

Jon’s eyes flitted up to hers as if he was surprised that she spoke at all before he glanced away just as quickly when he realized that she wasn’t looking back.

“I see no need for them. I can serve myself well enough.”

Sansa did look at him now, her eyebrows knitting together as she frowned and wondered whether Daenerys’ advisors bothered to speak to him at all. His gaps in knowledge were excusable. He hadn’t been exposed to the same lessons as Robb and it was less than likely that he’d learned how to be a lord or king at the Wall. Yet Tyrion, at the very least, knew well enough that he could guide his king in what was proper and what was expected. Opening her mouth to contradict him, Sansa thought better of it and sealed it shut again, turning her head before she could see him frown as well.

They did not speak, tension growing thick in the room as they filled their plates with food. She was almost grateful for the crackle of the fire in the hearth, for at least it kept them from suffering complete silence. She took small bites, determined to make as little noise as possible. As she reached out to take hold of her cup, Sansa felt his eyes upon her and decided to ignore it as she took a sip only to taste an explosion of sweet, unfamilIar flavor on her tongue. She let out a low hum of appreciation, swallowing it quickly before indulging in another mouthful.

“It’s blackberry wine,” Jon said quite suddenly, drawing her eyes to him. “From the Reach. It’s not to my taste but I… I thought you might enjoy it.”

Sansa set the cup down and lifted her napkin to dab at her mouth instead of licking the wine from her lips, allowing him a single nod.

“It is a fine drink, Your Grace, and you are kind to procure it for me.”

His face settled even deeper into a frown. Sansa knew that he misliked the formality of her speech. 

_ You won’t even say his bloody name! _

Though Arya’s condemning words rang true, her assumption of Sansa’s reasoning proved false. Sansa did not bar his name from her lips out of hatred, but to keep him shut away in the recesses of her mind where she’d banished him when word reached Winterfell of his impending wedding. Thinking of him only shoved the dagger further into her heart, so she sought to remove it entirely by trying to forget that he’d ever been in a position to harm her so.

“Thank you,” Jon said, his voice pulling her from her thoughts. “For what you did earlier. The rest was… much needed.”

Sansa simply nodded, realizing that he had eaten very little. He seemed far too preoccupied in watching her, as if he feared that she may disappear if he took his eyes off of her for too long. Such thoughts reminded her of those months at Winterfell, as Targaryen banners flew in the North and the Dragon Queen took up so much space in her home. Jon could scarcely tear his eyes away from Daenerys’ moonglow skin and silvery hair, guiding her about the castle with his arm held aloft for her to take, and secret smiles pulling at his lips as she whispered in his ear. Her stomach churned at the memories, held in contrast to all that Tyrion and Varys told her.

“I trust that everything is well in the North,” he said, a strained note to his voice as if he felt desperate to continue the pleasant conversation even if there were so few pleasant things to say.

Sansa swallowed a sigh of irritation, at this forced familiarity that he was pushing between them.

“You correspond with Arya enough,” she said, unable to keep the undercurrent of resentment from her voice. “I trust that she has kept you well informed.”

Jon grew quite still for a moment, all while Sansa cursed herself for slipping, before slowly setting his cup upon the table without looking away from her. She stared forward, still gripping her fork tightly in one hand as she refused to meet his eyes.

“ _ You _ never wrote.”

Though spoken softly, his words were edged by a bitter hurt. Sansa could have shouted the walls down at his audacity. That he would reveal this torment to her and, better yet,  _ blame her for it _ when he had gone against every promise he ever made to her. When he had fallen into the same trap as Robb, yet taking it a horrible step further than her brother when he willingly gave away the North to the woman whose bed he warmed. Sansa trembled with rage and wanted to bring it all crashing down upon his head, yet she knew that it would achieve nothing. After all, her words never meant anything to him before. Why should they now?

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” she said, disguising her anger in a quiet voice even though she could do little for the furious flush that stained her cheeks. “I have little time for leisure amidst my duties. Upon my return to Winterfell, I will be sure to examine my priorities.”

A quiet hiss through clenched teeth reached her ears. His hand curled into a fist atop the table, visible from the corner of her eye as she still stared forward with no break in her composure.

“Stop it.”

“My king?” Sansa said, finally turning her head to look at him.

Jon’s eyes blazed, not with anger but with something else. Vexation, perhaps. Or desperation.

“ _ That, _ ” he all but growled, leaning forward slightly. “You are not this… this wilting flower. You have never censored yourself in the past, my lady. Not for my benefit, at least. You insult only yourself by doing so now.”

Sansa all but slammed the fork down upon the table, losing what tenuous grip she had on her composure.

“What do you think I might have written in such a letter?” she demanded, tossing her napkin upon the table as well. “After all that happened, do you think that I had any time or patience to write out pretty words in an attempt to satisfy my royal cousin? Do you think that it was so easy to secure the forgiveness of the northern lords after I knelt to your queen? A decision that  _ you _ forced me to make?”

“Yes.”

He spoke the single word with such assurance, such  _ confidence, _ that she wanted nothing more than to wring his neck with her bare hands. Instead, the legs of her chair scraped loudly across the stone as she stood, moving away before her mind could offer any further violent impulses.

“Then you are a fool,” she tossed over her shoulder without looking back as she crossed to his window, needing the cool night breeze to soothe her overheated face.

“Perhaps,” Jon said, rising from his own chair noisily. “Or perhaps I see you as a capable woman who can do anything that she puts her mind to.”

Sansa folded her arms over her chest, refusing to look his way as she sank her nails into the thick fabric of her sleeves.  _ If you truly saw me,  _ Sansa thought to herself ruefully,  _ then you would know that my silence had nothing to do with any of that. _

“But you and I both know that you did not refuse to write because of the northern lords.”

Sansa turned her head to look at him with wide eyes.  _ I suppose I did ask for that. _ He stood several paces away, looking more alive than she had seen since coming face to face with him in the Great Hall. His eyes glittered in the dim light of the room and she could see a colorful flush in his own cheeks. Sansa would not let him snatch away the upper hand. Not when he had already broken through her determination to remain aloof throughout their meal, to keep this exact thing from happening.

“I don’t recall receiving letters from you, Your Grace,” Sansa accused him.

“Should I have sent them?” Jon questioned, taking a step closer to her. “Should I have poured my heart into what words I could manage only to have them tossed into your hearth before the seal could even be broken?”

She recoiled from the sting of his words as if they were a slap on the cheek, her lips parting with shock before she could gather her composure in time to hide such a reaction.

“You think me capable of such cruelty?” Sansa whispered, more to herself than to him.

Had she glanced his way, she might have seen the remorse in his eyes. But Sansa surged forward without looking up, crossing the room towards the door.

“No,” Jon said with a wretched sorrow in his voice, catching her arm before she could make her escape.

Sansa tried to wrench away as a tear slipped down her cheek but he would not allow it, gathering her into his chest to hold her in his arms. She wanted to fight him, she wanted to tear herself away and refuse to look upon him again, but she was so tired of the fight. So she allowed herself to be held. She allowed her tears to soak his doublet as his own had soaked her gown mere hours ago.

“No, Sansa,” he breathed into her hair. “I could never think the worst of you.”

“You said-”

“I feared it,” Jon admitted, cutting her off. “Perhaps I even deserved it. But I knew you would never do such a thing.”

His words provided a balm to her heart, slipping through the walls she had built around herself until they seemed entirely useless. Sansa would have lingered in his embrace for hours, but she knew that there were better uses of their time. Placing her hands upon his firm chest, she pushed him away just enough that she could tilt her head back and look into his eyes.

“You should have told me,” Sansa said, her voice barely above a whisper as she brushed her thumb over the even stitches at his collar. “You should have told me everything. I could have helped long before now.”

Jon said nothing in return, choosing instead to cup her cheek in the callused palm of his hand. His thumb brushed the soft skin of her cheek, his eyes heart-wrenchingly tender as they traced over her face with care. As if he was taking note of every change, allowing himself to breathe her in for the first time in years. Then his gaze dropped to her lips and lingered there as the room grew impossibly warmer. Sansa felt something come alive beneath her skin as his eyes seemed to darken, a simmering ache unfurling in her chest and flowing outwards to stoke the heat in her blood. 

They seemed to lean even closer than before, if possible, and Sansa could have sworn she felt his breath upon her lips. As his eyes lifted slowly to meet her own, fathomless and filled with a deep need, her lower belly gave a powerful tug of desire and she found herself pulling out of his arms with a gasp. Her sudden movement seemed enough to jolt him out of it as well, as he blinked and flexed his sword hand at his side before turning away, raking the same hand through his hair and crossing to the table to finish off his cup of ale.

“I-I’m sorry, Sansa,” he said, a hoarse sound to his voice that did nothing to quench the thirst that stirred deep within her.

She shook her head, pressing a hand over her racing heart as she silently absolved him of responsibility. It was an odd moment and nothing more. They were still learning one another, after so many years apart. Strange instances were bound to happen.

“Lord Tyrion and Lord Varys told me all that they could,” she said, her own voice sounding quite off to her ears.

Jon turned to look at her, his gaze inscrutable now.

“I’ve decided to stay in King’s Landing for the time being to offer whatever help I can give,” Sansa said, searching his face for any sort of reaction.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to,” she said all too quickly, still feeling quite unlike herself.

Sansa could see the doubt and guilt in his eyes now and took a step forward, nearly reaching out to touch him only to think better of it. They did not need another  _ odd moment _ .

“Please, Jon,” she said, her voice quiet as a whisper once more. “Let me help you.”

He stared deep into her eyes, holding her gaze for a stretch of tense silence before giving her a slow nod.

“The Red Keep is yours,” Jon said, his words sounding dangerously close to a vow. “All that I have to give is yours, Sansa, for as long as you wish.”

Her lips parted as she searched for something to say to such a heady declaration. Anything that might lessen the tension that still crackled between them like a bolt of lightning before the crash of thunder echoed through the sky.

“Thank you,” Sansa said, no longer faking the breathlessness of her voice as she sank into a curtsy. “Your Grace.”

As she rose, her eyes rose in time to see a brief, unrestrained desire in his eyes. Then it was gone, yet forever imprinted upon her mind. Sansa nearly shivered as he took her hand, bending at the waist to brush his lips over her knuckles.

“My lady,” Jon said in reply, his warm breath washing over her skin.

He returned her hand gently to her side as he straightened up. Sansa felt an ache deep within at the loss of his touch and forced herself to turn away without awaiting his dismissal. The creak of the door’s hinges startled her, even as she pulled the door open and made her escape into the corridor, feeling his eyes upon her with every step that she took. Sansa did not linger, ignoring the presence of her guards as she made her way quickly through the holdfast to her own chamber. Only when she was alone did she allow herself to breathe fully, sinking onto the floor to sit against the wall as she stared off into nothingness, wide-eyed and yet unseeing.

For she could not help but think that Jon might have kissed her if she hadn’t pulled away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts!


End file.
